The Science of Seduction
by whowhatsitwhich
Summary: They hadn't gone further than those few hesitant steps but he wondered. He toyed with it, mulled it over, tore it apart and then put it back together. He knew of only one way to ensure that nothing would be overlooked. And so he put his considerable mental facilities to work on the most important experiment he'd ever conducted...the seduction of one Dr. Molly Hooper
1. Chapter 1

_"Licence my roving hands, and let them go_  
 _Before, behind, between, above, below." ― John Donne_

They didn't talk about the call or the events surrounding it. Another time and in other circumstances, they should have but in this here and now, it never came up. Instead, he showed up at Barts one day unannounced watching her warily out of the corner of his eye as he made his way to 'his' microscope and sat down. She looked up when the door opened and then dropped her gaze to the file she'd been working on.

Sherlock immediately bent to the task of preparing his slides, grumbling a little under his breath when he found only two clean ones in the nearby box. The samples he needed for his experiment required six at minimum. His first clue that she'd approached was the smell of her strawberry shampoo and then the quiet clink as she sat a fresh box down by his elbow. He smiled his thanks and let out a breath when she nodded back before returning to her chair.

Two days later, he trailed behind her as she left for the evening and held the door as she slipped into her coat. Her quiet thank you warmed him almost as much as his Belstaff against London's evening chill.

Five days after that, he preceded her to the curb and waved for a cab. Neither spoke as he climbed in after her and relayed her address to the driver. The silence held even when they got to her flat. She looked at him for a full minute before handing over her key so that he could unbolt the door. Coats and shoes were left in the entrance and then he went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He knew she'd change, wash her face and then let her hair down before coming back. It was the same routine she'd always had and Sherlock found it comforting that some things hadn't changed. He heard her soft step in the hallway and her murmurs to Toby before she came in and sat down. They studied their hands until the kettle shrieked its readiness.

Three days later, he sank into the plush cushions of her couch and rested his head on his bent arm as she wandered about, turning off lights and double checking the locks. She glanced his way once...unblinking and intent...before she headed to her room. He rose up when he didn't hear the door shut behind her. There it was...wide open like an invitation. He followed after Toby and paused with one hand on the jamb, looking down at the petite form huddled under a yellow striped duvet. "Turn out the light and come to bed," her sleepy mumble enfolded him, drew him in until he found himself sliding in beside her, his body conforming to hers. After that, neither of them slept alone.

She kissed him good morning and good night. He held her hand when they took their aimless walks on her evenings off. Seldom was there a time when he didn't find some way to touch her...a pinkie grazing her hand when she passed him something in the lab, a playful tug to her pony tail when he followed Lestrade out on a case, fingers playing lightly over her pulse point when he wound her scarf around her neck, his foot nudging hers when they sat side by side on her couch watching telly.

They hadn't gone further than those few hesitant steps but he wondered. He toyed with it, mulled it over, tore it apart and then put it back together again. If she had any opinion on the subject, she masked it exceedingly well because she never tipped her hand. Sherlock decided that if things were going to progress beyond their current domesticity then it was up to him. He knew of only one way to ensure that nothing would be overlooked. And so he put his considerable mental facilities to work on the most important experiment he'd ever conducted...the seduction of one Dr. Molly Hooper.

 _The first three steps: Make an observation. Form a question. Form a hypothesis_

He found that, more than anything, it made him happy to simply watch her. It didn't matter what she was doing, Sherlock found that he was fascinated.

When she was absorbed in her work, there was a quiet intensity and focus about her. Each movement of her capable hands had purpose and forethought. She didn't need to think about what she was doing; muscle memory and familiarity giving each act a fluid perfection. It was a dance and he'd already composed her accompaniment. Someday soon, he would play it for her and see if she recognized it for what it was.

Taking her ease, she was calmness itself and he reveled in those moments. Evenings when she tucked her feet under her as she curled up on the couch...reading a medical journal or some lurid who done it from a best seller list...his head in her lap and her fingers idly toying with his curls. He lay there…eyes closed, lost in thought…entranced at the sheer sense of contentment he felt. Only with her, could he completely let his guard down. He was safe there. Loved.

She was playful with him. Silly jokes and rolled eyes and snorts of laughter when he tossed exasperated looks in her direction after an ill-timed remark. She tickled him. Tweaked his nose like he was a petulant child to be indulged. Swapped sideways smirks and teasing winks when some of his clients were especially trying.

Fierce. Loyal. Determined. Uncompromising. Especially when she felt like he wasn't getting his proper due. Donovan was on the receiving end of a well-aimed fusillade more than once; Anderson running a close second. Even John wasn't immune to her sharp tongue if she felt the situation warranted. Sherlock, himself, had been skewered after one of his acid tipped remarks struck her wrong. His Molly was magnificent when roused but he much preferred to stay on her good side where possible.

It was taxing to narrow his focus on which of her many sides would most likely come to the fore if/when they made love. There were so many variables to consider and he found that he was loathed to exclude any of them. The more data he collected, the more accurate his conclusions would be and the likelihood of repeating his results would rise. He hypothesized that she would take her queues from him; that his demeanor would act as a basis for hers. That would be his control. If he was soft, then so should she be. If he allowed himself a bit of free reign, there was no reason to suspect that she wouldn't do the same. He found himself looking forward to it.


	2. Chapter 2

" _All you have to do is breathe, and you seduce me." ― Grace Draven_

Molly Hooper knew many things. It was in her nature to seek out the truths hidden within, the reasons behind the reason. Maybe that's why she was at first entranced and then enthralled by the self-styled Consulting Detective. Something about him appealed to her meticulous nature even though he seemed to be chaos incarnate at times. There was always a method to his madness but God help her if she could understand his purpose now. There was no reasonable explanation for this, for him, for everything.

Her thoughts were storm tossed winds the longer it went on. One corner of her muddled mind sorted and studied each action and reaction. How could he know? How could she ever tell him? Taut as a bowstring, she could feel every muscle, every nerve ending, every gasp attune itself to him and how he moved over her, around her, within her. His fingers splayed over her ribs…blood and bone responsive to each feather light brush of his hands. His lips grazed her cheek, her forehead, and her lips. Not kisses. Just simple exchanges of pressure and breath…pulling her in deeper, pushing her higher.

She found herself poised right on the edge…on the cusp of letting go and that's when everything changed.

 _Step 4: Conduct an Experiment. ..._

Once he'd decided upon the details of his experiment, it then became necessary to put his plan into action. How to seduce a woman wasn't something he'd readily considered before now but there was a veritable fount of information to had if one knew where to look. That didn't mean that each agreed with the other; indeed, the whole subject was fraught with contradiction. So called experts with their weak grasp of true science declared an opinion only to abandon it as soon as a new trend became fashionable. His head ached at how tedious he found it. Best for him to trust in his own observations attained through his own experience through the use of his own senses. That and that alone could be trusted.

Sherlock fired off a text politely requested her presence that evening at 221B. To his exasperation, she didn't reply for ten point four seven minutes and when she deigned to answer, it was with a flurry of interrogative marks. Despite the convenience, he really did detest the inanity of this form of communication at times. He responded with something he knew would pique her interest….a soft little please (small letters and a ridiculously effusive font) and a pout emoji. As expected, she came back with a kiss face and I'll be there shortly. Six point seven seconds that time. Sherlock eyed off his mobile and resolved to conduct an experiment on which fonts and pictorial embellishments elicited the swiftest turnabout times. Surely John, Lestrade and a few others wouldn't mind participating.

That settled, he turned his attention to his preparations…things he to introduce throughout the evening to ascertain the optimal outcome. The first step, the easiest to his mind, was to construct a playlist of suitable music to accompany the evening. One that he particularly enjoyed was Tchaikovsky's Nocture in F. Another that Molly mentioned as a favorite of both her and her father was one he was unfamiliar with but found he quite enjoyed…Strangers on the Shore. Others, he selected at random after listening to the first few notes. Sherlock thought they blended well together and that Molly would appreciate his efforts.

The next task was to assemble his menu and it was here that he went to some trouble. Briefly, he considered texting Molly to see if she had any known food allergies but that would give the game away. A little assistance from Wiggins and he had soon had what he needed, the pertinent information from Molly's employee physical when she first came to Bart's. No known allergies. Well, then. That meant anything and everything was on the table as far as food choices. Fruits and cheeses and toast points prevailed. Honey and chocolate and cream whipped into delicate frothy peaks. He abstained from silverware, considering that there was a certain earthy satisfaction that comes with eating with your fingers and in feeding your partner. Part of him quailed at how very unhygienic the prospect was but another smaller, quieter part of him was properly fascinated.

A picnic begged for a blanket set in some out of the way location surrounded by grass and sky, a bit difficult to procure in the midst of Central London. Instead, he spread out and layered several duvets on the floor of his flat, including all the fluffy pillows and cushions that he could find, borrow or steal from Mrs. Hudson. Candles, low lights burning in discreet corners, and sprays of lilies and lilacs adorning the table tops rounded out his setting. It was then time to get himself ready.

Foregoing his usual dark jacket or even a dressing gown, he put on his favorite aubergine shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his top two buttons left undone and then donned a pair of close-fitting black trousers. His hair was left to fall in unruly waves over his forehead. Looking at his image in the mirror, he blew out a breath and blinked a few times until he had the nervous flutters in his stomach under control. The stage was set and the curtain lifted…all that remained was for the players to take their marks. She was due in just under ten minutes and his Molly was nothing if not ever punctual.

She was shocked and a bit charmed to hear Van Morrison's "Crazy Love" playing sweet and low as she ascended the stairs and found the door standing ajar. The light inside wavered and wobbled, as if made up of nothing but fire and moonlight. What in the world? Molly's jaw dropped when she pushed through the entry and found that was indeed the case. The air was filled with the subtle fragrance of flowers and beeswax candles, augmented by the all too familiar scent of his cologne. Covering her mouth with her hand to keep from gaping about like an idiot, Molly turned in a slow circle to make sure she missed nothing. It looked like paint by numbers scenes from a Hollywood production. He'd gone to so much trouble and apparently it was all for her benefit.

"You're here."

That deep voice had a way of cutting right through her; especially with all the contradictory thoughts running amok in her mind. His blue eyes…each pupil dotted with a tiny spark pulled from the candles scattered about…swept her from head to heel, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth and he came toward her. He was beautiful, his spare form edged in trembling gold…graceful and long limbed as he met her in the doorway and took her hand.

"I hope you're hungry."

"Famished," she confided, well aware that she hadn't eaten since early morning and that was only a pastry washed down by a cup of cold tea.

"Come, sit down." He led her to the closest pile of cushions and, after she sat, lowered himself down beside her and handed her a glass of white wine. She took a sip and laughed low in her throat at the flavor. Only he would do something so wonderfully unexpected as to choose a flower whose very essence was embodied in the wine. "What would you like? I wasn't sure so there's a bit of everything." Before she could speak, he picked up a plate and began to fill it. Molly contented herself to sip her wine, leaving it up to him. She raised a brow when he settled back down but twitched the plate out of her reach. "Allow me," he murmured as he picked up a toast point spread with caviar and held it up to her mouth. "There's crème fraiche if you'd prefer, or lemon. Maybe some egg?"

"This way is fine," she mumbled and then took a bite, the movement causing her to graze the tip of his fingers. Sparks danced up his arm and there was an accompanying shiver up his spine when her tongue licked a bit of the crème fraiche from her bottom lip. Hesitant, she picked up a wedge and held it before him, fighting to hold it steady as those blue, blue eyes flicked playfully up to hers before he took the food from her hand. He toyed with it…small little bites interspersed with kitten licks to his lips to savor the crème. The last was prefaced with a fleeting little kiss to her knuckle before he took the final bit. Those doe brown eyes were saucer wide as they studied him.

He smiled often as he watched her over the course of their meal. Her soft sigh at the tang of taleggio, apparently a favorite, was almost as precious as her wonderment when she tried prosciutto and fig presumably for the first time. Her gaze didn't waver from his when he finished each morsel he'd offered her. His own glass sat forgotten by his knee but he attentively kept hers topped off. In the background, The Scientist merged effortlessly into the opening eye strains of La Boheme's Che gelida manina 29.

Molly bit into a ripe peach and then giggled when the syrupy juice slicked her lips and then ran over her chin. She went to wipe it off but was stopped by his gentle grip on her wrist. He shook his head and then leaned in, using his free hand to daub most of it away. Without dropping his gaze, he licked the sticky liquid off his thumb before edging closer still to drop butterfly pecks on her chin and on the edges of her mouth. It was his turn to be surprised when she turned her head and captured his mouth fully.

Slender fingers threaded through his hair to hold him steady as she deepened the kiss. Lightning flickered in his veins when she rose to her knees and sidled closer until she was in his lap, her mouth moving hungrily against his and her low moans drowning out the music. His arms twined about her, one around her waist; the other, around her shoulders to keep her fully against him. His mind, usually racing in a thousand different directions…came to focus on her with an almost brutal intensity. He sorted through each and every sensation, every shift, every movement…the way she tasted, the silk satin feel of her hair, the slight weight that held him in place with more strength then he thought her capable. Oh but it was heaven…the way she moved.

Nimbly, she divested him of his shirt and then lifted her arms so that he could slide hers off and toss it aside. The rest swiftly followed…his trousers, her skirt, shoes kicked aside in their haste to get down to bare skin. China rattled, a wine glass thudded against wood as it was tipped off the blanket. Neither of them noticed. He relinquished her mouth only to slide down the velvet smooth column of her throat, pausing on the pulse point that fluttered like a wild thing. "Sherlock." How could she turn the two syllables of his name into an infinite? It beggared belief. There was no explanation other than that time itself had expanded around them…each second a lifetime, each lifetime a universe.

Rolling her onto her back, he settled into the cradle her thighs made, her legs ribboned around his hips. He then ascended her collarbone, nipping along the length until another more tempting target made itself known. "Oh my God." Her inarticulate prayer was a distant thing on the event horizon of his attention as he worried a pale pink tip between his thumb and forefinger before paying it homage with his mouth. She groaned her approval, fisting his curls to keep him there, her back bowed as shudders wracked her form. "Please. Now. Oh…oh…oh please don't make me…don't make me wait."

Never would her ever keep her waiting if it was in his control. Finding her lips, he kissed her slow and deep and loving as he fused them together. Her thoughts were storm tossed winds the longer it went on. One corner of her muddled mind sorted and studied each action and reaction. How could he know? How could she ever tell him? Taut as a bowstring, she could feel every muscle, every nerve ending, every gasp attune itself to him and how he moved over her, around her, within her. His fingers splayed over her ribs…blood and bone responsive to each feather light brush of his hands. His lips grazed her cheek, her forehead, and her lips. Not kisses. Just simple exchanges of pressure and breath…pulling her in deeper, pushing her higher. She found herself poised right on the edge…on the cusp of letting go and that's when everything changed.

"Molly." That his beloved voice was as tattered velvet didn't escape her notice. Nor was the way he shook against her, fighting with every fiber of his being to hold on, to wind it out. "Molly, my love, oh God." He slid one hand into the crook of her knee, lifting it higher on his hip to let him go deeper, find another angle that curled her toes...made her curse roundly under what breath she'd managed to drag into her laboring lungs. Again, his name slipped out of her…mushy, rounded, garbled bits of sound.

 _Molly, my love…._

She opened her eyes and caught his…felt the first tremors course through her. Her nails bit into the small of his back as the wave crested, held, broke over them…surging like a restless tide does against the shore. He followed after, the bruising hold on her hips the only thing anchoring her to the earth as he gasped out her name and then said it again…those three little words. Those longed for; dreamed of, heart wrenching words. "I…I…love…you."

Who knew a heart could simultaneously shatter and piece itself back together all at once?

a/n There will be one more chapter to this whatever it is. Just for fun, the songs mentioned throughout are the ones I listened to while writing. That probably shows exactly how all over the place I was in my head during the process but hopefully…it works. Thanks bunches for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

_"That's what it feels like when you touch me. Like millions of tiny universes being born and then dying in the space between your finger and my skin. Sometimes I forget."― Iain Thomas_

Twice more during the night, they came together. The middle instance, the one that began with sleepy smiles and come-and-go kisses, that one was his. The candles had burnt out but the fire still flickered in the grate. It gave enough light for her to see him, blue eyes heavy and hazy and pillow creases marring his cheek. His curls stood out in madcap bedlam, a shade darker than the shadows filling up the corners of the room.

She hovered above him, lithe and lean…make golden by the ambient light of slumbering embers. Her lips followed her hands as she took a leisurely study of his form. Gentle fingers were feather light as they traced his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, and the aquiline slope of his nose. Avoiding his mouth for the moment, she mapped out the length of his neck, the planes of his chest, wandered over his shoulders and down the length of his arms…lingering on the softness in the crook of his elbow. It pleased her to see a rash of gooseflesh pebble his skin in her wake. She kissed his pulse points at wrist and the base of the neck; dropped another at the place where his heart beat out a hypnotic rhythm. His chest rose and fell beneath her with every breath, hitching and stuttering when she found another sensitive spot. Attentive to every detail, she took note of where and how and then stored it away for later. His belly button. The crest of his hip bone. His neck craned as he sought out her mischievous gaze.

She quirked a grin at his sudden interest in her movements, watching him with coffee dark eyes as she bent over him and took him in her mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and canted his head back into the pillow, hands knotted in the sheets. Slowly oh so unbearably slowly…she worked him deep. Relaxed her throat and hollowed out her cheeks. One hand rested on his hip to hold him steady. She lifted up on her knees to give herself more of an angle. One small hand encircled him when he began to move, hips revolving to match her progress.

"Molly, please…"

"Please what, love?"

"I want to…I need…please…"

His hands on her shoulders were urgent as he pulled her up and kissed her hard. They came together in a tangle of limbs and muffled admissions.

"Like that?"  
"Yes, oh yes."  
"What do you want?"  
"You."

That echo of a long ago night in another life was enough to tip them over…him first and then her. They came down slowly…breath and heart easing into an all-consuming somnolence. It was a rarity for him to feel like that; and for her to be so at ease with another at her back as she lay in that place between sleeping and waking. She pressed her face into his back, kissed him lightly between his shoulder blades and whispered the words into his skin…as softly as the day she'd first said them during that call. "I love you."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The last time was just as dawn broke over the city…misty gray and silver white where the fog lingered along the river. She awoke to the warm tide of his breath on her face, his fingers slipping through the tangled length of her hair. Once he'd fanned it over the pillow to his liking, he turned his attention to the sheet haphazardly draped over her. He smoothed and shaped it until it hugged her curves. In his mind, he pictured 'The Birth of Aphrodite' but that painting couldn't hold a candle to the vision before him. As attentive as she'd been with him the previous night, he returned the favor tenfold now.

Every look, every touch, every muttered utterance of her name was a revelation. Cold, contained unerring reason…his higher power more often than not…gave way to the wants of his fledgling heart. It was heady, a free fall, liberating in a way he'd seldom known. Emotional context was everything…lending each discovery a depth and texture and substance that he could not deny.

"I love you, Molly."

The admission came easily, naturally, uninhibited.

Her soft gasp and tremulous smile as she returned it was perhaps the loveliest thing he'd ever seen.

He told her so and then laughed at the way her ears turned pink and she hid her face in her hands.

Sherlock had only made a vow one time previously…one that made him swear to never do so again. But in that moment, he vowed to let her know how beautiful she was in his eyes. How good and brave and loyal. That he was hers as much as she was his. That he loved her.

He was a man famous for having all the answers. But in this arena…this sentiment…this unfamiliar language, he was adrift. He found himself longing to master it and Molly…dear Molly, sweet Molly…she was the one he wanted to learn from.

The End

a/n Thank you! Thank you! Thank you so much for reading this crazy little experiment of mine. I cannot express how much your kudos, reviews, and favorites have thrilled me.


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